The Mega Men
by Lady Keruri
Summary: Dr. Light really did turn out to be "The Father of Death". A Protomen/The Megas crossover.
1. Chapter 1 Revised

**Hey guys! This is chapter one, rewritten! I needed to fix a few things and play around with The Mega's/Protomen's stories and attempt to make something that worked together.**

**Enjoy!**

**The Message from Dr. Light**

I whispered unheard words to him. This child of mine. This...being of my creation.

As I look at him, my hands wrapped in bloodstained bandages, I see flashes of the Reploids I'd built before. The sniper bot, thousands of mine workers...Blues. These were prototypes, things I had no cares about. These were beings built for a purpose--to serve mankind. That, as I believed, was what robots and Reploids were for. They had no emotions or reasons to be alive other than to serve.

I should have listened to Albert. Perhaps it is my own fault that he went mad, perhaps nothing this evil would ever have happened.

I learned my lesson as an old man. It took the loss of a son to teach me. Now I look up into the face of another Reploid, one that I will love with all my heart. I built him in my image--I built his hands, his face which was partially finished. To any other, the gaping eye and wires scattered everywhere would be something out of a horror film, but to me, this was my son, my creation. This was the boy that should have been mine and my Emily's. His eyes are forest green, like his mother's.

I will build him, program his personality, make him learn, know how to walk, how to feel and act. His personality will be that of a curious, adventurous, and kind young man, but with the extensive and incredibly complex program I will build into him, he will take his life's experiences and integrate them into his system--things people tell him, those that spend the most time with him, gender of certain people, conversations, tragedies, everything--and he will learn from them and let them mold his personality, just like any other human. I can teach him as if he were my own human son.

I feel empty and hollow as I speak aloud. Speaking to keep my sanity. I think the words were of my past, stories of my life and those whom I've loved. I sincerely hope this child will remain innocent. I hope he will burn with the passion that I used to. My mouth formed the words...

A message from Dr. Thomas Light.

_Twenty-six years earlier..._

As a man of twenty-nine years of age, I was hardened and aged more than a normal man of sixty. I had lived in a society of working people, people who had to kill themselves daily to live and get by.

My father worked in the mines, just like the rest of them. Our stock of coal was larger than anywhere else--but that was all that this city--if you could call it one--had. When I was just seven years old, I began working alongside my father. He always had rough hands, and he always worked hard. He would come home every night, coughing up black soot and dust. My mother would watch helplessly until she was also forced to work alongside him.

My father--Thomas, like me--would tell me stories as we worked. I'd bring the buckets of coal he'd gathered and cart them up an elevator to the ground above while he talked.

"Little Tom, there was once a man who had nothing. Then he worked hard, day and night, and earned himself money enough to travel away from his family and find his fortune. He found a spot of land, one that was dusty and dry--but he loved that land, and he claimed it for himself. Thirteen years later, this city was formed. Others found it and came to live here, and pretty soon, all this coal was discovered. So you see, son, with hard work, anybody can make something out of nothing."

He used to tell me other stories, each of them usually ending up with the hardworking man getting what he'd earned in the end. Father used to teach me that a good man would be humble, a good man would be kind and generous. He told me once, when I was ten years old and I was upset about the death of my friend's father, that real men showed their tears. That was the first time I let myself cry in front of him.

When I speak about my friend, I talk about Albert--my very best friend. He was always so vivacious, so ambitious. He always had some kind of crazy dream he'd be working towards--each dream different and more wild than the last. He had a habit of telling tall tales--lying, of course--but I would listen to each story intently and laugh until my sides hurt.

So when Father died, he was right there by my side, his brown eyes sober and lacking that spark for once. We stood there at the funeral, Mother there with us and hacking up that black dust like Father had until his throat would bleed, and I decided then--no more. Men would have to kill themselves no more.

I was nineteen at that time. I went home and gathered up every scrap of metal I could find. The only machines I knew how to control were the mine elevators, but I wanted to learn how to make a different tool, some machine that could ease the burden upon the people and make for a better life. I didn't sleep for five days, and when I came out of my father's old garage, I had a metal machine that moved. It had copper dangling in places and electric circuits that stuck out everywhere, but this machine could roll on smooth ground and pick up small items. From there...I didn't stop.

Pretty soon Albert caught on to what I'd been doing. He came over and began spending days and nights with me in that little garage. He was good with his hands, but he didn't seem to get the concepts of machinery as I did. He did, however, insist that the metal had some kind of warmth and life, that the machine would _speak _to him and tell him how it wanted to work. I think he knew then--the bots we built had ghost programs in their systems, and those were the things that made them feel, made them alive.

Together he and I created ingenious contraptions, things that helped men in the mines. Minor helps, at first, but soon Albert and I were to build such an advanced machine together...it was going to be phenomenal.

It was around the start of this eight-year project that I met Emily.

She was...beautiful. I met her one day in a crowd of mine workers as I explained one of my lesser machines to them and how it worked, how it would help them. She had lingered behind for some unknown and unremembered reason, but as I stepped down from the makeshift presentation stage made of slabs of wood, I saw her.

I turned around and she turned her eyes to me--entrancing green eyes, the color of shaded leaves--I instantly fell for her. I don't know how it happened, and I don't know if I knew what I was feeling at that age.

_Present_

I cut myself off and stop talking at this point. My chest hurts and my throat hurts too much to continue talking about her. I watch my half-finished son sleep. I cover his body and face with the black tarp, hiding him away, and one of Wily's many search bots scans through the window of this run-down apartment building. It leaves, and I get ready to try to sleep.

It felt as if tonight was going to be another sleepless night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Father**

His eyes were open. I did not know how much the color of his eyes would pain me--the same shaded green as Emily's--until my child would look upon me so innocently with his eyes. His face and his eyes were as if Emily and I had had our child--the one we spent nights together speaking about. She wanted a son, and I wanted a daughter, perhaps a creation of my own that I would consider later.

I had made him young and handsome, so perfectly human looking that he could walk down the street of this city and remain unnoticed. I modeled him after the last man who would have been a hero, and attempted to give my son the same sense of justice, the same boldness, innocence, and strong will. But there is only so much that I can do to make a personality...Rock had the ability to change anything about himself.

"What is my name?" The Reploid asked, the face of a young man peering straight ahead with no emotion and a great sense of purpose. I allowed myself a small smile.

Reaching my hand behind his head of synthetic black hair, the same color as mine when I was young, I activate the drive that will allow him to learn and develop his own personality. Each one of the different "emotion drives" had its own quirks. I wince at the memory of Albert's words...

_"One day you will learn. One day you will lose your creations and you will realize that I was right."_

I had learned. My lesson would be in the form of the prototype Reploid...my Blues...

"I will call you Rock," I said, and waited. The boy's eyes lit up in mirth and happiness, and suddenly he smiled brightly. This reploid _is _my son. His face and body are that of a twenty year old, the prime age of life, but his face and expression is that of a boy, a child.

"I like it," he concluded, then hopped down from his perch and promptly began examining me. He made a circle around me quickly, and suddenly he was a ball of energy that could not be stopped. I chuckled and Rock halted his actions.

"What was that?" he asked. I feel myself relaxing and becoming fatherly. He is a brand new child, and I am new to becoming a true father.

"It's called a laugh. You do it when you think something is humorous, or, in this case..." I stopped and held my son's face in my hands. "It's something that fills you with joy, otherwise known as an emotion that makes you feel really good here," I said, and took his metal fingers and placed them on his chest, where I know he has special wiring. I had placed it there purposefully, to synthesize the human's metaphoric heart.

"What is your name?" He asked curiously.

"Dr. Thomas Light, but you'll just call me...'Father'."

"'Father'?" He says inquiringly. He took a few steps and stumbled, still learning to walk. "If you are my father," he asked suddenly, "Then...who is my mother?"

I felt as my body stiffened briefly before I answered his question. "Your mother...she is not alive. She's gone..." I said, and I could feel my voice crack. My eyes dart involuntarily to the desk drawer, where I kept her letter that she'd written me so many years ago. The letter had been rolled into a tight scrool before I'd read it, but I had read it so many times that it now lay perfectly flat.

"Not alive?" Inquired Rock. "Does that mean she's not here? Will she come back?"

A sharp stab of pain in my heart made me stop in my tracks at his words. To be learning what death and loss is at such a young age...but I could not lie to him. "She can't ever come back, my son. Death is the cessation of all function."

His eyes suddenly became solemn as he absorbed my words. "Will that happen to me, too?" he asked.

"Someday, but that day is a long way away, son." I told him.

He looked down at the ground. "Will I go where my mother went?" he asked.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I suddenly was stuck with a very difficult question. As a Reploid, a boy of steel and latex, programs and synthetic skin and hair, would he go to the same place human beings did? Then I saw him look up at me, with the eyes that I'd made myself, and saw emotion and feeling shine through, and I knew.

"Yes, Rock, you will see her...someday," I said. He seemed mollified by this answer and went back to his exploring, though not quite as enthusiastically.

A full twelve hours later, when my voice was hoarse from answering his questions, Rock was still attempting to satisfy his insatiable thirst for knowledge. He absorbed everything I said much more quickly than a human child, and still he wanted more, more. I could tell that his energy was beginning to get low--his movements were not as smooth or fast and his words came more slowly.

"Sit down, son, I have a story for you," I said, and he immediately obeyed, eyes wide and body still, ready to listen. "You are not the first son I've created," I informed him. He blinked but waited for me to continue. He'd already learned that patience got him more answers than impatience.

"The first son I created was a lot like you. He was your brother, and I called him 'Blues'." I chuckled. "Though the name would have fit you, too," I said, gesturing to the blue colored metal used to build him.

"He was the prototype, the first robot to think and feel. His original name was 'Proto Man' because of this, and he preferred that name. He was much more quiet than you, ready to answer his questions by simply watching and absorbing information from all around him. He aged very quickly. I'd spent ten years building him until he awakened, then for the next two years, he was awake while I kept remodeling and finishing his build."

Rock interrupted me finally. "So what was my original name?" he asked. I chuckled. "Mega Man," I answered. Rock smiled. "That sounds cool!"

I continued my story. "As I said, Blues matured and aged quickly. He liked being by himself most of the time, though he enjoyed spending time with me. He never chose to talk a lot about meaningless subjects, instead being comfortable with silence. He was...brave, bold, and incredibly intelligent. However, being the prototype, he was a bit aloof. I didn't mind, and I took care of him. I did not realize then that he was extremely important to me, as I knew about you the moment I created you. I loved him...but I did not realize this until he was gone."

I looked up and was startled to see Rock's eyes filled with tears, shaded green eyes shining. "Did he...did he die?" Rock asked.

I swallowed, feeling as if something were sticking in my throat. "Yes. He's...he died. It was about six years ago..." The two of us, father and son, sat in silence for a long while.

"So...I had a brother..." Rock finally said, and I could see that emotions and crying were making him tired.

"Yes, you did, and he was a wonderful young man. Someday...someday I will tell you the rest of his story. Your brother was a hero--just remember that." I lifted him easily, his metal being a light but durable alloy, and took him to the equivalent of a "bed"; a recharge station that worked just like the cellular phones the people of the city were once allowed to have.

"Good night, Father," said my Reploid son as he lay down and closed his eyes.

I ruffled his hair, my heart filling with happiness and filling the hole left from my previous losses...

"Good night, my son."


End file.
